


Sovereignty

by Incog_Ninja



Category: Actor RPF, American Actor RPF, Norman Reedus - Fandom, Real Person Fiction, emily kinney - Fandom, emily kinney - fandom - freeform, norman reedus - fandom - freeform - Fandom
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/F, F/M, Hotel Sex, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Norman Reedus - Freeform, Rope Bondage, Threesome, Threesome - F/F/M, blindfold, norman reedus - fandom - Freeform, norman reedus/original character - freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 09:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Incog_Ninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supreme power, freedom from external control, and finding that tiny place inside yourself that some people don't even know exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nmbr1Fanilow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nmbr1Fanilow/gifts).



> Disclaimer: All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.

 

She’s on her knees in his hotel room—panties around her ankles and her short, flouncy skirt tucked into its waistband above her hips. After he bared her “smooth, tight ass” to his liking, he pressed three fingers to her shoulder, toward the floor, and she obeyed.

 

“That’s my good, sweet girl,” he murmurs from above her, threading the tips of his fingers through the ends of her shiny, black hair. He loves her hair and its contrast with her ivory skin. He thinks she looks like a china doll—red lips and lush, black lashes that frame her wide, grey-green eyes.

 

“Open my pants,” he says, looking down into her perfect, heart-shaped face. She tries to look innocent; it’s part of the act. He loves that about her, too—that she’s a smart, strong young woman, who doesn’t take shit from anyone on the cast or crew, including him, but he can have her like this.

 

She doesn’t hide her impish grin from his as she slowly pulls the glossy leather tip from the soft, wool loops on his waistband. The metal buckle shimmers and rings brightly, like a bell, in her delicate but capable fingers. She doesn’t fumble and she doesn’t flinch; she doesn’t look away, as she pulls the sleek strap from its place on his low-slung dress pants.

 

Most of the time, she sees him in costume—dirty, threadbare work pants, sleeveless shirts, the same boots, though. Most of the time, he’s covered in fake blood and filth, wet and tired from the Georgia heat. Here in California, he’s just as deliberately scruffy and coiffed, but he’s cleaner and less worn down. She likes him both ways; this is just an observation.

 

She lifts her hand, the belt innocuously aloft, and he pulls his gaze from hers for a brief second to consider the offering. Then he hums and reaches for the strap. “Save this for later,” he mutters, slowly dragging the leather across her small, pale palm.

 

“Hurry up, princess,” he encourages her to continue with the task he’s given her, slipping his hand fully into the back of her hair. The strands are cool to the touch, like jet black optical fiber. She really is like a perfect, little doll. “Got a lot to do tonight.”

 

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, tucking her chin into her chest, but keeping her eyes sealed to his. She slips his button through the buttonhole then slowly pulls the zipper down. His pants slump around his hips, then, and she wants so badly to take a peek. “Can I look, Daddy?”

 

He nods and pulls a small smile that appears satisfyingly ominous to her.

 

Catching glimpses of him when he thought no one was looking over the past several months has been the sole reason she’s been drawn to him, wanting to help him relax and unwind and find the kind of pleasure she longs to share with just the right person. His brain is always working, assessing, creating and destroying. The motion of it’s written all over his face and in the way he moves—intention and deliberation. Everyone thinks he’s so laid back, but she knows better.

 

She drops her gaze for a moment—long enough to appreciate the sizable bulge in his blood red briefs. Her mouth instantly waters and she bites her bottom lip to keep from saying anything out of line, then she brings her gaze back up to meet his.

 

“Thank you, Daddy,” she says, mischief twisting her shapely, red lips in the most fuckable way.

 

“That’s a good girl,” he says, running a single finger across her brow then tracing the shape of her cheekbone and jaw line. “Now, take it out.”

 

She does as she’s told, eagerly and expertly, their eyes remaining locked. He fills her hands, hot and smooth and hard. They’re so perfectly matched and in tune, it almost feels like a dream for both of them.

 

“Open that pretty little mouth, princess,” he says, and she doesn’t hesitate, holding his eyes with hers and guiding him to where her flat, pink tongue lays over the bottom row of her teeth. “That’s right, just the tip.” She closes her lips around him and slowly closes her eyes, humming, savoring the feel of his smooth head just inside her mouth.

 

He pushes forward ever so slightly, relishing the warm velvet of her tongue on the underside of his cock. Then she swirls her tongue around him once and hums again. He can feel the vibration, and he thinks about holding her down and fucking her throat like he did last weekend, when she was being such a little brat. His cock jumps in her mouth and he pulls out.

 

Her eyes fly open and catch his. They’re both on fire already and the night has only just begun. He wraps his thick hands around her delicate elbows and brings her to her feet, her 3-inch heels bringing them eye-to-eye. Her ruffled panties are tangled at her ankles, still, and he places one booted foot on the fabric, holding it to the ground, then tells her to step out of them.

 

“I’ll be gentle tonight.” His voice is quiet. He takes her face in his hands and tips her forehead toward his lips. “You’ve been such a good girl.” He lets his lips linger against her porcelain skin before continuing in that same soft, gentle tone. “But sometimes I just want to tear you apart.”

 

She shivers under his lips and words and feels her knees shake. She wants him to destroy her so he can build her back up again. He’s done it before and it’s a revelation to behold what happens to them both. She thinks about defying him in some way so that he’ll change his mind, so he’ll decide to _not_ be gentle. She loves every way he touches her, though, and gladly accepts that the bottom line is: he’s in charge here.

 

His fingers trail downward, from her temples to her collarbones, knuckles brushing her taut nipples through the thin fabric of her camisole. She doesn’t wear a bra anymore when they’re together; the last time she did, he sliced it to bits with a knife he’d stolen from the set. Every Sunday night she squirms on her couch at the sight of that knife strapped to Daryl Dixon’s belt.

 

He slips one hand between her legs, then pushes his thick middle finger up inside her. “Let’s see how many times Daddy can make you come tonight, princess. Don’t hold back.”

 

Her breath speeds up and her heart skips a beat. Next to his punishments, this is her favorite thing. She’s come as many as seven times in one night from his hands alone. Her eyes roll into the back of her head when he curls his finger inside her against that small, yielding spot behind her pelvic bone. She knows he’s going to draw the first one out until they’re both utterly drenched with her. She cannot fucking wait.

 

She braces one hand on the plush chair beside her for stability, letting him fuck her with his finger. When he pushes another finger inside her and twists, she whimpers and reaches out to touch him. “Uh-uh, baby girl.” He catches her by the wrist and kisses her palm before dropping her hand and pulling the front of her camisole down to expose her breasts. “I want you to touch yourself.” He lightly tweaks one puckered nipple. “Show me,” he whispers, pulling harder at the other one.

 

She does as she’s told, refocusing her gaze on his lips as he licks them, watching her swipe and pull at her hardened peaks. He wraps his free hand around her waist when he sees her wobble on her high-heeled Mary Janes. He suddenly wants her naked except for those shiny shoes. They’re exaggerated in their dimensions and they look obnoxious on her slight frame. The thought of her struggling against his restraint with those big, chunky shoes makes him so fucking hard.

 

He pulls his fingers from her body and immediately puts them in his mouth. He’s such a glutton for her taste. He tells her that she’s his, that he owns her, so he can taste her whenever he wants, but it’s just a cover for how much he can’t control the way he wants to lose himself in her. He internally reminds himself to keep it together as she watches him suck his fingers clean.

 

“Take everything off except your shoes and get on the bed,” he tells her, then refastens his pants and sets to work on his tie.

 

He watches her strip her camisole and skirt away and toss them to the side. She walks with purpose to the bed, her straight, black hair, swaying just at her shoulders, then climbs onto the mattress on all fours. He wants to grab her and fuck her like an animal, but he had a plan for tonight and they both need him to stick to it.

 

“Stay just like that.” His voice is always a soft kind of murmur, but when they’re alone like this, it’s an entity all its own, engaging all her senses and consuming her, teasing her and making her wish she could keep it with her always. He sounds different when they’re like this than he does on Sunday nights, and part of her is grateful for that exclusivity, but a bigger part wishes she could have it any time she wants. She longs for just his words sometimes and that makes this arrangement they have that much more sacred.

 

She halts in place on her hands and knees, the toes of her heavy Mary Janes inline with the edge of the mattress. She wonders briefly if he’s going to give in and fuck her like they both really want deep down inside. But she knows he won’t; he never gives in. He has the most unyielding restraint of any man she’s ever known. The world sees a playful boy, living in excess, but she knows better. He’s self-possessed and disciplined, and he is in control.

 

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed and drops his plain black necktie to the bright white duvet. Her pale hands clutch the comforter, the bright red of her blunt, perfectly manicured fingertips, shimmering like drops of blood in fresh, white snow. He’s suddenly inspired by the blend of colors and he wants to tint her creamy skin with his hands.

 

The first smack is light, even though he wants to be heavy. He needs to work her up to it. Besides, she loves being spanked and taking his time with it is always a pleasure for them both. Each strike leaves behind prints. It looks like he’s dipped his hands in crimson ink and pressed them onto a pristine white canvas. Over and over and more severe with each open-handed blow, her skin is dappled with the color he desires.

 

He smoothes one hand over her ass and thighs, soothing the welts he’s imposed on her perfect skin. His other hand moves between her open legs from behind and he slides two fingers through her sopping wet slit. She pushes backward on impulse, wanting to be filled with the mass of his talented fingers. Instead he pulls his hand away then slaps her again, right where she’s wet.

 

“Strike two, princess,” he says. Then his hands are gone and her skin is cooling in their absence. She keeps her eyes focused on the necktie pooled around her fingers and listens to him move across the room and retrieve his belt from the floor. “Gonna have to tie you up. What a shame.” There’s an edge of sarcasm in his voice, but neither of them find shame in bondage; if anything, it’s a world of delight to eagerly explore.

 

She closes her eyes and feels the bed dip beside her. Then he’s twisting her limbs and torso, laying her flat on her back, straddling her middle, and stretching her arms above her head. She feels the cool, unrelenting leather of his belt wrap around her wrists and the soft wool of his pant legs warm her sides. “Open your eyes,” he says, and she opens them to see him smiling down at her as he loops the belt through a slot in the headboard, the buckle quietly clicking and clanging.

 

Once he’s fastened her wrists and tested the slack so there’s just enough but not too much, he slides down her body and goes to work with his tie. He binds her ankles just six inches apart to restrict her movement, but he doesn’t tie them down. He likes giving her latitude.

 

He settles beside her, propped up on one elbow, his free hand reaching to cup one of her breasts. “Comfortable?” he asks, and she nods slowly, holding his gaze like she knows he likes. She gasps when he rolls her nipple between his thumb and the big knuckle of his forefinger. “Good.” He moves his hand to her other breast then dips his head to take the nipple he’d just been working into his mouth. His lips and tongue play for a few beats while he pulls on her other nipple with his fingers. Then he bites down with his front teeth and pulls.

 

She hisses and arches her back and rubs her thighs together. She’s almost there, but she knows if she comes before he tells her to that she’ll be punished. She reconsiders that as an option, but after last week, she decides not to push him. He’s already warned her with “strike two.”

 

He reaches down and pushes his hand between her legs, his fingers in a V over her clit. He loves how fucking ready she is all of the time. He learned back when he was her age that girls in their twenties are always on the verge of coming. As he’s gotten older, he’s used that to his advantage, drawing orgasms out of girls just like her in ways they never dreamed, discovering that little place inside them that took him years to find inside himself.

 

He closes his mouth over one breast and flicks at her nipple with his tongue, spreading her lower lips with his thumb and ring finger to expose her. Then he taps and rubs and taps and rubs until she’s squirming and whining underneath him. “Hmm.” He switches his mouth to her other breast and raises his hand in the air before swiftly slapping her plumped clit. “Come on, princess,” he whispers against her skin. “Come for Daddy.”

 

And she does—quiet and gasping, already fantasizing about what comes next.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks. I'm working on c. 3 right now and hope to have that posted today as well, though. Thanks for reading!

When she comes out of the stall, he’s leaned against the door to the ladies’ room, ankles and arms crossed, the picture of cool and unconcerned. He is concerned, though, and she knows he’s concerned. He’s been ignoring her text messages and steering clear of her since San Diego. It’s been almost four weeks.

 

What exactly he’s concerned about, she isn’t sure, and she really doesn’t care at this point. Maybe it’s the alleged ‘girlfriend.’ Maybe it’s the judgment of the rest of the cast and crew. Whatever it is, she’s lost too much sleep over his rejection and she’s arrived at the decision that he’s an immature little boy in an exquisitely crafted man’s body.

 

She deftly makes her way to the sink without a second glance at him and begins to wash her hands. She’s always found hand washing to be a sensual experience, and is sorely disappointed when the soap in public places is medicinal smelling or drying, or the water’s too cold or hot. Everything about this experience is pleasant, and she’s more than relieved at that because he’s suddenly behind her, watching her every move over her shoulder in the mirror.

 

After rinsing her hands, she reaches for a towel, leaving the water on, and he speaks. “Gonna turn the water off, princess?”

 

She’d roll her eyes at his bravado if she could find any of her own. His closeness after such a long period of distance is knocking her off kilter, though. He affects her in a way that no one ever has, ever since the very first moment they met. She prides herself on being self-possessed and decisive, and that’s one of the things he loves about her—loves about controlling her. Right now, she’s teetering on the edge. In her mind she thinks that he doesn’t have the right to call her ‘princess’ after weeks of no communication, and then she remembers the strap around her neck.

 

The water pours carelessly into the stained, white basin, steam starting to rise as the heat takes over in temperature between the two taps. She turns her eyes up to meet his and catches a glimpse of her own hand at her throat, fingering the small, sterling padlock hanging from the black, leather strap—contemplating.

 

He leans forward and twists the taps shut. “Don’t wanna waste water,” he murmurs. The eyes that haunt her dreams shimmer blue and bright in the warped, foggy mirror. His cheek is close enough to her to slap or bite or kiss. She chooses to do nothing but breathe in his scent. He smells light and clean. The whiskey and cigarettes are always secondary. He as always, precariously lulls her.

 

He braces his hands on the counter on either side of her because he knows she won’t defy him—not right now, anyway. She likes to play and she likes being punished, but he sees the hurt in her eyes, the true anger. Not only have they not been together in several weeks, but he’s flat out avoided her. He won’t tell her why; it doesn’t matter anyway, not for them.

 

He can tell that she doesn’t want to play any of their usual games. He’ll have to take complete control, which he doesn’t mind so much, except he was hoping for a little of that trademark spunk she’s so famous for amongst the team. He needs it tonight—that energy and connection and passion. But, then, he guesses that he doesn’t deserve it after the past few weeks.

 

He draws in a deep breath and shifts behind her. “This dress is a masterpiece,” he says quietly, wishing he could touch the bared skin of her back. “Did you make it?” He drags his eyes back up to the mirror, where she’s watching him closely. She nods, her eyes wide, like a deer in headlights. He nods, echoing her affirmation. “The color.” He breathes in deeply again and catches her milk chocolate scent, lush and creamy, dark. Her dress is like a confection, filmy fabric in the colors of blue and black berries. Her skin looks like cream.

 

“You are my princess.” His words are firm, but they’re tinted with uncertainty. He can hear it. He hopes that she can’t.

 

She simply stares at him, her wide, grey-green eyes perfectly alert and aware. He pushes one foot between hers and nudges each of them. As she begins to comply, he can see the tension draining from her rigid shoulders, and her jaw loosens. He hasn’t won her over completely—never will—but at least he has his foot in the proverbial door.

 

“Daddy’s right here, baby girl,” he says and she drops her head on an exhale. He takes in her perfectly coiffed up-do, the slender, porcelain column of her graceful neck, the expanse of pure alabaster skin that ripples with the lean muscle of her exposed shoulders and back, and the gentle draping of the lavender gossamer gown.

 

He wants to touch her, but she isn’t ready.

 

He closes his eyes. “Did you miss Daddy?” he asks, dipping his head and puffing his breath—mint and cigarettes and whiskey—along her jaw. She shivers inside, but she won’t let him see it. She quietly nods. “Show Daddy,” he says, commanding, and she meets his gaze in the mirror. There’s a raw second or two where each of them feel the floor shaking, or dropping under them—fight or flight.

 

Then, “show me,” he whispers, his eyes softer than she’s used to seeing in these moments. “How much you missed me.” He looks tentative, almost… pleading? She stares a beat longer before letting go of another long sigh and leaning back against his chest and shoulders. She rolls her head from side to side, and it’s as if she’s marking him like EITD marks him every time he walks in the door.

 

He let’s go his own sigh of relief and leans into her nuzzle, brings his hands to her hips, and drops his mouth to her bare shoulder. He hums, skimming his lips up her neck, not quite kissing her—not yet.

 

His hands travel upward, to where her dress dips low, showing off her cleavage and the smooth skin of her neck and chest. First he cups her breasts through the thin, silky material, brushes his thumbs over her nipples and feels they’re getting hard. He watches her react in the mirror and she’s already writhing against him, wanton, pushing her breasts into his hands. He knows she’ll let him take her on the sink, but he wants more than her body tonight. He needs more.

 

“Let me take you home,” he says, suddenly dragging her from her haze of lust. She looks around the bathroom bewildered, then shakes her head. She starts to turn in his arms, to get away from him, then he stops her with a word. “Jess.”

 

She looks up at him sharply, and they stare for a moment. He’s never used her given name when they were alone—ever. His expression is unreadable to her, not that she gives a fuck what he’s thinking; hers is unadulterated fury to his eyes. He doesn’t move, though.

 

She doesn’t even consider pushing past him or using force. It’s useless for a hundred-and-one reasons, least of which is his body’s like a steel wall. They’re equal in almost every single way possible—fitness, stealth, and agility included—except he outweighs her by 50 pounds.

 

They’re also equal in their desire to connect, regardless of how distant he was last month, so she stops resisting his request. “Okay,” she says with more confidence behind her voice than she feels; he makes her question everything.

 

“Good,” he says, backing away and giving her space to leave the room. After a minute, he trails behind her, stopping at the bar where he left his jacket and helmet. He turns and sees that she’s taken a seat at the table with the others.

 

“I’m takin’ off,” he announces once he’s reached the table. He slips into his jacket, and she turns in her chair and looks up at him.

 

“Oh, hey, can I catch a ride?” He thinks that maybe dance and costume design are the wrong profession for her because that was an award winning ask for a simple ride home. “I only live a few blocks from here, but these shoes were not made for walking.” She smirks, and he licks his lips at the mention of her shoes.

 

“Yeah,” he nods. “Yeah, come on.” He nods toward the door, and she climbs out of her chair. They bid their goodnights to the group and make their way to the door, where she snatches her jacket from the coat rack.

 

Once they’re outside, he turns to her. “Don’t argue with me, and put this on,” he says, handing her the helmet as he walks around the bike to climb astride it.

 

She finds it intriguing that he thinks she’d argue with him. Safe word, yes; argue, no. It’s especially odd to her that he’s still carrying on like they aren’t what they are, even though no one is around. Is she _supposed_ to argue with him? A switch generally patrols the terms of their relationship—they’re either on or off. At work and when others are present, she jokes with him just like anyone else. Now that they’re alone, she wouldn’t dream of teasing him or arguing, but she follows his lead.

 

She slips the helmet onto her head, readjusts it to fit her well enough for the five-block ride, and fastens the chinstrap before climbing on behind him. The fact that she’s wearing a dress makes straddling the bike feel awkward, but then she molds herself to his back, wraps her arms around his waist, and she’s fine.

 

They ride in relative silence. He doesn’t need directions; he’s given her a ride home before. When they pull up to her duplex, he rolls the bike around the back. Her mind relaxes slightly because that usually means that he’s staying. She wishes that didn’t comfort her as much as it does.

 

They make their way to the back entrance to her place. When they get there, she pulls the screen door open and without a thought or a look, she hands him his helmet and the door to hold open while she digs for her keys. He waits as she unlocks the other door, and then they’re inside.

 

“Make yourself at home,” she mutters, as if he’s never been there before. She drops her bag and her jacket into a kitchen chair and immediately opens a cabinet. “Can I get you something to drink?” She looks at him over her shoulder.

 

He’s slowly removing his own jacket. “Don’t suppose you have any whiskey?” he asks. Setting his helmet aside, then draping his jacket over another chair.

 

“No.”

 

“Something red?”

 

She turns and tilts her head, studies the contents of her cabinet and clinks bottles together, searching. “Châteauneuf-du-Pape?” she asks, pulling a bottle from the dark recess, then turning to show it to him.

 

He nods and reaches for two of the large red wine glasses that are hanging from the rack next to her refrigerator, and she goes about uncorking the wine. When he sets the glasses on the counter in front of her, she shoots him another look.

 

He’s too close all of a sudden. Minutes before she was wrapped around him with the heavy vibration of his Triumph under her. Now she needs space; and he instinctively gives it.

 

He backs away from her and leans back against the oven, elbows popped and the heels of his hands braced on the edge. He quietly watches her pour the golden garnet liquid through a small diffuser into the two glasses. Without further ado, she hands him a glass, then leans similarly against the opposing counter.

 

He takes a small sip, never taking his eyes off her. “Nice drinkin’ red,” he says, and she nods.

 

“Yeah, it’s nice.” She’s relaxing, but only barely, and she wants to get to the point of why he’s there. They drink in silence for a few beats. The kitchen begins to warm with the energy bouncing between them—not so much tension as it is electricity and uncertainty. Then he breaks the silence again.

 

“Are you good with what we’re doing?” he asks quietly with that same look of hesitance he had in the bathroom at Maguire’s. “I mean, apart from last month.”

 

She holds his gaze for a moment. It feels like an hour to him, though. They’ve never really talked about anything other than the terms of their relationship outside work. He knows she’ll let him do anything he wants inside a scene, until she safewords. But he needs more than her compliance right now.

 

“That,” he pauses, pulling his lips between his teeth, running the words through his head before saying them because he doesn’t want to sound insincere. “That won’t ever happen again.”

 

She arches a brow and her lips quirk. She takes another sip of her wine. She thinks about the rollercoaster of emotion to rode the past three and a half weeks; she doesn’t ever want to go through that again. It was painful and it was humiliating. She’s both regretful and thankful that she didn’t have anyone to tell about it. After much thought, she nods. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m good with what we’re doing—apart from last month.” She emphasizes the last bit so that he knows she’s serious about it.

 

He worries his lips and swirls his glass, watches the long legs drop slowly into the bowl. “I’ll never lie to you,” he says, then looks her right in the eyes. He feels that he’s accomplished what he came here to do, but he wants to be assured that she still trusts him.

 

“I know.”

 

“Yeah?” He sets his glass aside.

 

She shrugs. “You aren’t a liar.”

 

He bobs his head and pushes away from the counter, and she sets her own glass aside. When she turns her head back to face him, he’s directly in front of her. They’re eye to eye, but she suddenly feels the shift.

 

“I really do love this dress, princess,” he says, fingering the neckline, his knuckles, barely brushing the swell of her breast. “It’d be a shame if something happened to it.” His eyes flick up to meet hers, fire and ice. “Take it off.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, again, guys. I swear I had this all mapped out, but our male lead was being a tough cookie. Thanks to Rhanon Brodie for helping me through that spot. Also, I made a thing below!

She slips out of her dress, looking over her shoulder at him. He nods, answering her silent request to move into the living room. She crosses the threshold, and he follows her, taking her dress from her hand and draping it over the arm of the couch.

 

“Shoes and panties,” he says, loosening his tie, and she wordlessly complies in that order, stepping out of her strappy silver heels, then sliding the shimmery satin over her slim hips and down her long, lean thighs, bending at the waist until the scrap of fabric hits the floor. When she stands upright and kicks it to the side, he’s circling her, licking his lips.

 

She waits patiently as he inspects her. He’ll find that regardless of what he was doing last month, she maintained her regular waxing and skin treatments. He comes to a stop in front of her and uses a single finger to tilt her chin up from where she’s trained her eyes on the floor. He holds her gaze for a few beats, a small smile in his eyes, but his lips are in a thin, pressed line. “Good girl.” He caresses her chin with his thumb, then trails his fingers down the front of her throat until his palm is resting over the lock of his collar.

 

Their eyes meet again, and there’s a reinforced promise in his. In hers lies acceptance and ultimately submission.

 

Then he slowly wraps his hand around her throat, while he speaks calm and low, holding her gaze. “I want all of you tonight,” he says. “Taste every inch, fill every hole—I’m gonna turn you inside out, princess.” Just like you do me, he thinks.

 

Her eyes glaze over, and she resists the urge to immediately drop to her knees. She bites back a moan as the fingers of the hand at her throat comfortably grip her and the fingers of his other hand slide through her growing wetness. She closes her eyes for a split second and his hand tightens further.

 

“Eyes open,” he commands, and she swiftly obeys. “I said I want all of you tonight.” He loosens his grip, but only slightly, and his other hand doesn’t miss a beat—skilled fingers work her fast and wet, rubbing and sliding until she’s coming with a quiet whimper, gripping the back of the couch with one hand. “That’s a good start,” he mutters, bringing both of his hands up to hold her face as he kisses her slow and deep, humming into her mouth.

 

She answers with her own humming whine, aching to touch him, to grab his wrists and hold them tight, so he’ll keep them right there forever. She wants to close her eyes to savor this moment—his sounds and tastes and the way he touches her. But she loves looking at him, too.

 

His mouth leaves hers to travel her jaw and neck. She drops her head back and stares up at the tiled ceiling. “I missed you,” she breathes into the air above and the words drift over them before she can take them back. But she doesn’t really care how it sounds—desperate, pleading, needful—it’s all true anyway.

 

He nods and buries his face in her neck. “I know, baby girl,” he says because he can hear it in her voice and feel it in every tremor of her taut muscles. He feels it, too, although he’ll never say as much; he isn’t even sure what it is. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to be without it.

 

He takes her mouth with his again, and pulls her away from the back of the couch. They dance slowly in a circle until he lifts her to balance on the edge of her desk, one hand cupping the back of her neck and the other wrapping around her knee. He gives her a lopsided grin as he sinks into the wooden chair in front of her. “Didn’t get enough to eat at dinner,” he says, keeping hold of her knee and her gaze.

 

He drapes her leg over his shoulder and wraps his arm around her thigh to keep her spread wide and in place, as she rests her opposite foot on his thigh and grips the edge of the desk. He looks straight into her hot gaze and slowly parts her lower lips with his middle finger and thumb, licks her slow and long with the flat of his tongue, massages her clit with his index finger, then drags his tongue back down and slides it inside her. She even tastes better than he remembers. He should know it’s all in his head, but he can’t reason right now.

 

She breathes into every stroke of his tongue and fingers, as they alternate inside and around—everywhere. Her palms are grinding so hard into the wood surface of the desk that she thinks she might have splinters. He wasn’t lying when he said he was going to taste every inch of her—he’s not a liar—and he’s going to take his time doing it.

 

She still wants to touch him, though, so she risks being reprimanded for acting without express permission, reaching one hand up from the edge of the desk and planting it in his thick, dark hair. She’s not guiding him, just feeling him. She loves touching him.

 

He chuckles against her skin and nips at her playfully. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood tonight, princess.” His eyes are sharp, as he slides his thumb inside her, still holding her open with his other hand and licking her. Then she feels one long finger slide between her ass cheeks and press. He’s taking her up the ladder. “All of you,” he reminds her between licking and sucking.  

 

He keeps talking, all in the variety of praise to her for being beautiful and slick and open and his. Her toes grip his thigh and her fingers grip his scalp. She feels something take her over; it’s him, and she knows it, but it’s something else, too, moved by him, forced from her. Minutes later—his voice, and his fingers and his tongue—she’s coming for the second time since they walked through the door; this time she isn’t as quiet.

 

He’s pleased, she can tell. He sits back in the chair, gently holding her calf aloft in one hand and wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. Her other foot slides to the floor as he licks his fingers. He’s positively feral. She swallows thickly and sighs, slumping against the desk, as he stands, pushing the chair backward, its legs scraping loudly in the quiet room. He tilts his head and puts his hands in his pockets. “Need a break, princess?” he asks. He’s still licking his lips.

 

She nods in answer, feeling her body begin to cool slightly. She’s covered in sweat and his kisses. Without him so close, she’s chilled.

 

“Okay,” he says, popping a cigarette into his mouth and striking his Zippo alive, then drawing a deep inhale and letting go an exhale with a nod. “Your bedroom in five.”

 

##

 

She’s perched on the foot of the bed, her dark hair in loose waves around her face and brushing her shoulders, her ankles crossed and her chest out. He stops just inside the door, rakes his eyes over her elegant form and back up to her bare face. She took her hair down and scrubbed her face clean. He can see the sprinkling of freckles across her nose, even in the dim light of the bedside lamps.

 

“Your hair’s grown,” he says, as he continues into the room, glancing at her sideways. “I like it.” She grins and shifts to face him more fully, uncrossing and recrossing her ankles, knees together. “Thirsty?” he asks, and she nods. He hands her a bottle of  water that he brought from the kitchen. “Gotta keep my girl hydrated.” He tips his own bottle and watches her drink.

 

She’s graceful and elegant in everything she does, even at work when she’s bossing everyone around costuming; and that’s what haunts him. He’ll never get away from that aspect of her—the self-assured, modern girl, something he can never really possess.

 

He sets their bottles aside and she follows his instruction to kneel at the head of the bed, facing the headboard. He kicks his boots off, pulls his loosened tie over his head, and removes his shirt, while he watches her settle into position. She’s like a mythical wood nymph, glowing in the dim light of the room. In his jeans and belt, he searches the top drawer of her bedside cabinet for a blindfold before he climbs onto the bed behind her. “I need to know you still trust me.”

 

Her stomach tightens for a brief moment—not because she doesn’t trust him, but because what happened last month is lingering between them. Tonight is about exorcising that from their space forever. She nods, closes her eyes, and lets the soft satin darkness envelop and comfort her. “Grab the headboard,” he says, his voice more commanding to her ears than it’s been all evening. “Don’t let go, no matter what.”

 

She hates not being able to touch him, and he knows it. She’d rather he deny her an orgasm than tell her not to touch him. She wishes now that she’d savored his first hour in the house more, taken more time to touch him while he was touching her and tasting her. But she nods again.

 

“Tell me,” he says, and his fingers tease the skin on her back and hips.

 

“Yes, Daddy,” she says, feeling a sense of relief from those simple words—that he knows what to do to rid them of the black mark on their sacred bond, that he’s showing her the way, that he cares so much about her and them.

 

“Good girl,” he says, pressing his lips to her shoulder. He massages her back, licks her spine, nips at her shoulder blades. “My precious girl.” Then she hears his belt clang and his zipper purr, and she can’t help the sound of want that rumbles from her chest.

 

Once he’s inside her, he can’t help his own groan of satisfaction. He’s really never known anyone like her. And he doesn’t have a fucking clue how to safely navigate both sides of their life together; but he’s too damn selfish to let her go and see her everyday on set.

 

He hums and smiles to himself, pulling her back onto him, slow and hard. “My little cunt missed me, huh? Feels good, baby girl.” He dips his head and kisses her skin, runs his nose along her shoulder. “You like being full of Daddy’s cock again?” he whispers, and she nods frantically. “Let's fill you all the way up, then.”

 

She grits her teeth and hangs her head. He’s so hard inside her and she wants so much to touch herself, to come on him. She knows how much he loves feeling her come. But then she hears him spit, and feels the slide of it down her ass and between her cheeks. Then his thumb gathers it and pushes inside her until he’s to his first knuckle.

 

“Oh, shit,” she breathes, and bites her lip to keep from saying too much.

 

He chuckles again behind her, never letting up on his thrusts.  “Be a good girl and take it all.” Then his other hand is moving to hook his first two fingers into her mouth, and he says, “Now you’re full of me, princess.”

 

She gasps around his fingers in her mouth and sucks them, gripping the headboard until her knuckles are white. He responds by pushing his thumb in until the crook of his hand meets her ass and his fingers wrap around the side of her hip. He feels her start to ripple around him.

 

“Not just yet,” he grunts, setting a brutal pace. “Take it. Jesus Christ.” He has a sudden moment of clarity, wherein everything she is and has been to him becomes even more surreal. The thought of losing her—losing this—makes him crazy, but he knows he’s in over his head. He grips her harder, the skin of her hip pressed and pink between his fingers, and her tongue slides against the fingers in her mouth. “Just me and you, princess, right? Just me and you.” He drops his head to her shoulder and breathes against her skin.

 

She’s consumed by him—every inch of him. She feels a tear escape the corner of her eye and down the side of her face to his hand; he wipes it away with his thumb. “You’re mine,” he says, as if it needed to be said out loud. She wonders if he’s saying it to reassure himself or to inform her. She was his from the very first ‘princess’, from the very first touch. She’ll never be anyone else’s—not like this. She hopes that he knows that.

 

“Come for me now,” he breathes heavily, slowing and angling his thrusts so she can’t resist. “Tell me.”

 

“Yes, Daddy.” She gasps for breath, constricting rapidly around his hardness, tears unbidden on her cheeks. She’s dizzy and bleary-eyed, and everything is vibrating around them.

 

When she’s done, he slowly pulls out of her body. They are still skin on skin; he can’t bear to pull away from her completely—not right that second, as he holds her close and settles her flat on her belly. His fingers caress her skin and he hovers above her, straddles her thighs, and places one hand on the small of her back. He sits upright, taking the sight of her splayed beneath him, spent but utterly willing. How he got here with her is as much a mystery to him as she is.

 

He grips himself in his hand and finally allows himself to come, marking her for the first time in weeks. The release of tension is physically satisfying, and he collapses to her side, his heart and mind still racing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Hi! *waves* I'm sorry it's been so long since I updated.   
> This installment takes them down a new path, but the tone remains the same. Just remember, nothing is ever what it seems to any one person. They each have a different take on what's real, despite the intense connection and implicit agreement, mutual respect, etc. it's a constant struggle and game of balance.  
> Please not the new tags before reading.  
> xox - MJ

For her, work is always a flurry of activity, but satisfying. In the moment, it feels like everything’s spiraling out of control, then at the end of the day, they’ve nailed it once again and put it to bed.

 

For him, it’s different. He feels like he’s on the outside of it all, but smack in the middle and under the gun -- like it’s some kind of astronomical phenomena. At least he has his castmates in that space, so he isn’t alone.

 

“Reedus!” she calls out to him where he stands with Emily, holding hands and touching foreheads. Jess’s skin is flushed and sticky from the Georgia heat and the weight of losing another cast member; she is exhausted. “I need the rest of your costume --  now .” When he meets her agitated gaze, his is full of desperation. He looks lost, angry, ready to start a fight. He’s hurting and he’s hanging on to the hurt. It’s too much for her to bear, so she turns and heads to her trailer. 

 

She really is satisfied by the end of the work day, though, because it’s fiction and it’s done and she can go home. Today is one of those days, though, when she needs a long, hot shower and a glass of wine. She never has the patience for his excessive emotional side that he shows so spectacularly at work, but especially on long and hot days -- especially on days when they lose someone. She realizes that he’s upset, but everyone’s upset. 

 

“He needs to fucking get over it,” she mumbles to herself. The trailer door slams behind her, mirroring her blown fuse, yet she flinches at the harsh sound. Every nerve in her body is raw. 

 

“Want me to get it from him?” Ryan asks.

 

“No,” she snaps, closing Beth’s costume case one last time. “He’ll be here in a second.” She’s confident that he will because she can feel him approaching the trailer as she speaks. “You can head home.”

 

Ryan halts his fidgeting and inconsequential arranging and rearranging of tools and supplies to try and catch her eyes with his. He’s attracted to her and has wanted to ask her for a drink since he started this gig last month, so he’s stalling. He feels a little intimidated by her, though, because she isn’t like the other girls her age that he knows. She’s self-possessed and aware of everything; but that’s probably the reason she scares him. 

 

“You sure? He was kind of in  a mood today,” Ryan says, rolling his eyes. He likes him -- but he can’t put his finger on why he rubs him the wrong way sometimes. Maybe it’s because he seems to have a charmed life? That model girlfriend of his and the way Emily hangs all over him and how Jess seems to give him the tiniest bit more latitude than everyone else.

 

Jess makes a sound that could be a derisive scoff or a humorous snort at Ryan’s comment -- he isn’t sure which until she speaks. “We were  all in a mood today, Ryan. Everyone loves Emily.” She sounds frustrated or angry. “You can’t fault him for being upset,” she says, even though she’s doing exactly that. 

 

“Okay,” Ryan says, approaching her, trying to come up with something comforting to say. Her reaction is a prime example of how he knows for a fact that he could never tame her. She’s like a wild mare to him. 

 

He reaches out to massage her shoulders. “But it’s not like she  really got her head blown-” Ryan’s words are cut off by the sound of the metal door being yanked open and the rays of the setting sun spilling into the trailer from around the figure in the doorway. He turns to face the door, but doesn’t leave Jess’s side. There are about three beats of awkward silence before Ryan breaks it. “Hey, man,” he says, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the table. Jess crosses the room to meet the actor at the door, to take the last piece of the costume and put it away. 

 

“Ryan, I said I got this,” she says as she hangs the red cloth in Daryl’s case. “See you next week.” 

 

The anger and rejection bloom on Ryan’s face as he is effectively dismissed. He pushes away from the table, watching  him move further into the room. “What about you, man? Takin’ off?” Ryan asks.

 

“Nah,” the other man answers without taking his eyes off of  her . Ryan steals one last look at her before leaving the trailer in a huff.

 

As the door closes behind her co-worker, she turns to face her newest obstacle to peace and quiet. She sighs. “Don’t you have a dinner tonight?” She breezes past him to gather her personal things.

 

He arches a brow at her abruptness. “What’s up with Ry Guy?” he asks, his voice taking on a mocking tone that she easily identifies. He isn’t jealous; he just doesn’t like Ryan. There isn’t room for jealousy in their relationship.

 

“I have no idea,” she answers without hesitation. Then she turns back to face him, settling her bag over her shoulder. “Do you need something? Because I have to go; I’m exhausted.”

 

“I want you to come to dinner,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets. 

 

She blinks. “To Emmy’s dinner?”

 

He nods.

 

“That’s just for the cast.” She’s spent time with the cast and crew socially, but the death dinners are patently more intimate. 

 

“No, it isn’t,” he states. “Greg’ll be there.”

 

She thinks he must not be thinking clearly because they’ve agreed, more than once, that their relationship is  their relationship , and no one’s business but their own. She thinks about all the times she considered asking him to dinner with friends and to be her guest at weddings. It’s just not who they are; so now what? Before she can form any of her thoughts into words that aren’t “what the fuck, man?”, he speaks.

 

“I want you there,” he says, and she feels her foundation ripple ever so slightly. 

 

“In what capacity?” she asks.

 

He laughs. “As a dinner guest?” He shrugs.

 

She glares at him then shakes her head at his predictable adolescent dismissal of the topic, then turns to exit. “Sure, dude, whatever,” she knows now that he is absolutely not thinking clearly. 

 

He’s in front of her in a flash, blocking the door with his outstretched arm. She gasps and for a second she can’t breathe because his face has changed from sad, little boy to her calm and collected Daddy in a split second. They aren’t in a scene. He can’t come down on her for her behavior as it is, and if he tries, she just might safeword because she’s tired and just as emotional as he is about the whole thing and...

 

“As  my guest,” he clarifies, capturing her fleeting gaze and holding it, keeping it warm. She feels that warmth seep from her head to her toes. When he’s like this, her reaction is visceral. This is when she’s most comfortable with him, when she feels safe and warm, knows what to expect, and like he doesn’t  need her; but he really wants her.

 

“Okay,” she agrees. “What time?”

 

##

 

She goes home by herself, takes a long, hot shower to cancel out the same aspect of the day, rolls her damp hair in sections, and meditates. The things that float in and out and through her mind, shuffling and settling are mostly nothing new -- staying right with her choice to be his sub, balancing business and unerring pleasure, not allowing his inability to manage his own emotions in an adult fucking manner to damage her calm. But somewhere at the end of her 40-minute session, she finds the same existent hole left by Emily’s impending departure.

 

When she opens her eyes and her breath returns to normal, an idea occurs to her -- a way to soothe the hurt. She hopes that he’ll agree; but even if he doesn’t, it’s what she needs and wants. She wants very much for this to be what they both need -- individually and as partners. 

 

She takes a cab to his place in the woods. It’s black as pitch out, but the house is lit up like it’s Christmas, twinkling in the night, complete with warm sounds of people talking and laughing -- enjoying each other fully -- and even warmer smells as she draws near the door. Before she can knock, Alanna answers. She looks surprised to see her, but happy and welcoming.

 

“Jess!" Alanna throws her arms around her as Jess crosses the threshold, then the rest of the girls crowd around. Emily’s the next to hug her.

 

“Thanks for coming,” Emily says. “When Norman told me you were, I was so happy. You’ve been so great this whole time. I’ll miss you, Jess.” She hugs her again, this time lingering for a beat. There’s a definite exchange of energy confirming Jess’s post-meditation hopes. Emily pulls back and the expression on her face is slightly bemused, yet she entwines her fingers with Jess’s. “We should exchange numbers, ya know, to stay in touch.”

 

Jess squeezes Emily’s fingers and nods with a smile.

 

“She’s been like this all day,” Lauren says, good-natured, tears brimming her eyes. “We all have, I guess.”

 

Jess is certain that what she felt pass between her and Emily is not what Lauren is referring to -- all the same, she smiles and makes a comment about it being a shock and rough on them all, making the tears spring anew.

 

“No more tears!” Danai says, as she and Melissa approach the group with a bottle of wine and a fresh glass for Jess. “Celebration only, ladies. Jessica, I think I remember that you drink red wine, am I correct?”

 

“Yes,” Jess answers, smiling and accepting the glass from Melissa’s hand. “It smells amazing in here.”

 

Dinner is wonderful, and not just the food; the bond the cast shares is apparent to Jess and will likely remain unbroken. Scott came to dinner and he isn’t even onset these days. Jess feels honored to be included at this level.

 

She remains close to Emily’s side, and feels his eyes on her, throughout the evening. Small touches, leaning in -- she hopes he’s getting the picture. As guests begin to leave, Jess busies herself in the kitchen. She isn’t alone long.

 

“Hey,” he says. “Thanks for comin’.” He’s smoking, but his hands are otherwise empty. She noticed earlier that he wasn’t drinking much tonight.

 

“I’m honored,” she answers, turning to give him her full attention. She rests against the counter behind her, bracing the heels of her hands on the edge. “I’ve had a really nice time.”

 

He subtly narrows his gaze, his focus on her, and then the space that divides them until she can feel the heat from his body. He discards his cigarette in the sink and rests his hands on either side of hers. 

 

He’s been planning more tonight than this dinner, and he’s ready to share his desires with her as he often does; yet this is something different than what they usually share. He looks deep into her eyes, knowing the effect it has on her. “Stay with me tonight,” he says.

 

Her eyes spark and her chest heaves. They’re both silent as she contemplates how to reply, but she senses that he’s right there with her. Her brief hesitation excites him. In her eyes, he sees a tiny flicker, so he fans it into a full flame.

 

“Tell Daddy, princess.” He slides one of his knees between hers, his voice carrying only to her ears. The movement of the others outside of their bubble begins to shimmer into a haze. “Tell me what you want.”

 

She breathes slow and steady, dragging her eyes in the direction of the departing guests, bringing his gaze along with her, until they both land on her object of desire. The tiny blonde smiles and hugs her friends goodbye. Then, as they both hope, Emily senses them watching her and returns their gaze. Her smile turns to something ethereal, yet knowing, and her eyes seem to lose focus.

 

“Her,” Jess says, closing her thighs on his knee, holding him in place, and never taking her eyes from Emily across the room. “I want her.”

 

He watches them watch each other and he can’t contain his satisfied grin. “Good girls get what they want,” he says, pushing a wave of black silk behind her ear.

  
Jess breaks her connection with the other girl just long enough to reply, “and I want you to watch, until I say otherwise.” She and he lock eyes, and his stomach flips twice at the sheer commandment and raw impulse in every fiber of her being -- she radiates control. He resists dropping to his knees in front of her and replies, “yes, ma’am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Rhanon Brodie for her support. I wasn't going to write this, but here it is!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Nmbr1Fanilow for inspiring these characters to tell the story I've wanted to tell for years. Thank you Rhanon Brodie and MsKathy and OneLilHopeful for being my friends. I love you girls.


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